


Renaissance Man

by kongscheetoarms



Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Related, Character Study, Gen, No Romance, No Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-11 03:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17439290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kongscheetoarms/pseuds/kongscheetoarms
Summary: He never came back.They never came for him.





	1. Awake

* * *

 

The scent of late night cups of coffee and yellowed paper fill the warm, dated room. With caffeine so lovingly fuelling his bloodstream, it leaves Hongbin to deal with the dead seas of his mind. Rolling tides wash his mindscape with broken ideas, never used nor picked up and left to sink in the sand, left to the ocean’s mercy once again. Staler those passing fantasies get as it slowly erodes from the battering of the waves, never looked back on and yet it continues to haunt him. Details are erased. Cast off are the little discrepancies which make it more than a sorry, overused trope.

“Back to work.” The thought races in his mind briefly before setting down.

Hongbin doesn’t see much in himself, frankly. Other people reaffirm that he is not only a pretty face, a one-trick pony, but as much as one seeks a sense of validity from their surroundings, only his own thoughts have a right to torment its owner. Then again, even this does not stay true to itself. The human mind is selective, and the most broken of them does what it can to stay that way. It does not want to feel and will do what it can to stay numb to the world. Even if it is aware that it is being mangled, torn and twisted by the clueless words of imaginary onlookers, it says it does not hurt. Even if the onlooker claims to be him, it should not hurt. It could never.

1:00 am. The clock reprimands him. 

“You’re on a deadline,” and with every tick, it repeats itself.

His seat creaks beneath him and a stark, artificial glow outlines all it touches. Desk bare, the dusty surface would be a blank canvas to those who aspire to do much more; to the indifferent it is but a testimony of what nothing has done for you.

3:00 am. The clock strikes.

“You’re on a deadline.”

“You’re on a deadline.”

“You’re on a—

The table quakes from his weight.

“This sounds terrible.” He whispers in the ear of the bloodshot reflection. The restraint in his vocalisations only become looser.

“Come on, spill something on the page for once, anything! Stop being so damn conservative and write, please. ” He exclaims, staring blankly at the monitor. Nothing comes.

Darker and darker it turns. pixelated eyes wane and waver, and it feels his every move. A living machine, useless without input and still it continues to breathe. It waits to rip any semblance of an idea out of him. Paralysed, his hands become one with the keyboard, skin seemingly grafting itself onto the cheap plastic. Eyes imitate the grey-white void of the screen and scream for an answer. It goes dark and empty, and so does he.

He backs off from his desk and cries out strings of self-targeted catechisms. The obligatory whats and hows, always left unanswered. He only remembers the whys.

The silence of the night swallows his sentiments for him. What was once a comfort, an escape, is now the gatekeeper of what has been. He left everything that night. He remembers the way he sprinted back, the uproar of emotions running rampant. The cascading insecurity and fear washed over him; it was much more than any 17 year-old can take. Regressing into a state of naïveté, Hongbin wanted to go back to a time where his choices meant nothing to the world. He wishes for the times where he would wake up to the spring breeze and the warmth of a home-cooked meal. At the time, he didn’t realise how the freedom of youth could not apply to the life he wanted to build for himself.  

He knew the path of an idol was already something few would consider, and yet it all dropped to the ground for the one selfish view he put to heart. Two careers have already been severed; one of stability and the other of stardom. Moving with only the tightrope as his safety net, he makes do with what little he has and sets his weary eyes back to the start. To where the fields of arts would diverge, he releases the grasp on his compass. Hongbin brought nothing but himself.

8 years have passed since. Now, he works in a corporate limbo pervaded by the compromises of both unrequited futures. Neither here nor there, his experimental, freelance mind is now challenged by the formulaic demands of the workforce. A round peg in a square hole, he fits but has never felt whole.

He glances at the clock once again.

4:16 am. The time he ran away.

And again.

5:01 am. The time everyone woke up and never said a word.

And again.

5:30 am.

 

* * *

 

“A meal for one, as always.” Hongbin thinks to himself, wearing a bitter expression on his face.

The spark, the chemistry between the heat and the oil fills the vacancy of the air close to him. As a writer, noise had no business intruding his thoughts, but it was welcome on the off times where he was not grinding out the last few words for a paragraph. There were rarely any feet shuffling across the house or a head poking a hole into whatever routine he got into. No silly questions, taps on the shoulder or anything that would make him turn his head and raise a brow. Beyond the occasional visit from select family members and the fun little skirmishes he has from gaming with his friends, Hongbin has his interactions with those close at a minimum.

The golden sun peeks through the panes of the living room, a refreshing sight compared to the white glare of the monitor. Though filtered by the clouds, the rays manage to retain its signature warmth. It makes for a decent start to the weekend.

Hongbin drizzles some sugar into his meal. Questionable choice, but at this rate no one can restrain him from committing something so undeniably foul. Unstoppable, he chuckles at the odd form of encouragement he gives himself. No one needs to know.

“A meal for one.” He reiterates, now with a happier displacement. He takes the bowl of kimchi fried rice and sets it on the table. The sugar has caramelised slightly from sitting on the still-hot layer of oil on the egg, now broken open after being jabbed by metal chopsticks. Hongbin isn’t the best cook, but it gets the job done.

Still thawing from icy winter, the citizens of Anseong has laid in a deep slumber under the monochrome skies. Students walking to their respective campuses are barely able to keep their spirits high and their temperatures higher. Only a handful of pedestrians in sight, most heavily bundled akin to tucking themselves in on a cold Christmas Day. Urban wildlife have never dared to step out of their hollows. Though already two months into the new year, few have truly recovered from the holiday hangovers. There comes a point during the latter part of December where time finally wears out its shape and becomes a sort of novelty. Those who partake in such festivities are constantly phasing in and out of conscious thinking, the only exception being the need to decide on what leftovers have to disappear and in what way. Drinks are no different in this regard, but its fate has been chosen from the start. 

He feels a soft, rhythmic buzzing next to his arm. Thinking it is his morning alarm, he hovers his finger over what appears to be a decline button. A shock travels from the base of his spine and his body freezes for a split second. He scrunches his entire face from the correcting himself and pulls his arm away from the device. He couldn’t fathom the thought of accidentally cancelling a call simply from force of habit, more so the embarrassment that would stem from it. Clearing his throat, he answers the phone and Hongbin utters a small greeting. He addresses his colleague by name and listens to what they have to say.

“What? I know.”

“Yes, I’ll have it turned in soon. Should—” The voice gets cut off. His face goes sour, eyebrows furrowed.

He leaves his half-eaten breakfast under a mesh cover and heads back to his bedroom. Having most of his life be dictated by something that cannot even power itself, by people he barely know or understand, is humiliating. The computer watches over him silently, housing all what he wishes to never see again—untouched images and notifications, dead email addresses reduced to a mere container for spam. The world has reduced this man into an escapist. He spends his energy looking for a new beginning.

Deep down, Hongbin knows that this isn’t how change is made.

No person can have a second chance; they only pick the first one back up and remove as many mistakes as it allows you to. Those who say otherwise think they can simply throw it aside, but no. This slate is not as disposable as the clothes spurned out of closets after every trend. As clean and polished as Hongbin appears to be on the outside, the repressed sides of him squeezed into the walls continue to ooze out like a festering wound. These pains mirror each other endlessly, shadows pouring into every cavity with each recursion. An abhorrence he cannot see, it stares back at him, telling him to fix it. His job is one of the many pairs of eyes that look through his thick shell. For now, they have been sealed shut as his email is sent through the servers.

With all that was asked for him for the week finished, he topples onto the bed. Even when the sun has fully risen from its own linen white sheets and has given the world a proper, uncensored greeting, there is no reason to enjoy the outside in this state. Maybe later.

 

* * *

 


	2. Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories.

* * *

 

Click.

The keypad resets and blinks awaiting its next interaction, but only a breeze brushes past. Quiet footsteps dot the corridor and the dorm has been relieved of one of its residents. Goodbye his legs wave for him, his bags clinking away its farewells, but the mouth did not follow suit. Hongbin, his mind sure and eyes unblinking, is bathed in the fluorescence of the elevator. A deep breath in, shallow ones out. One more, the exhale stutters. Another, but it could not leave. Not like this, not with every rancid emotion wanting to escape with it. And so, it gets left behind in the building it was made in. His orphaned piece of himself, with guilt and regret in its tone, cries for him behind the glass panes of the company doors. It watches as he walks away, him seemingly indifferent to it all.

“This is for me.”

What can the child do with the illusory freedom he gave himself?

“I can build a future on my own.”

Would he not feel these chains connecting him to this very moment?

“I didn’t need this.”

Would he not hear the nonexistent metal drag and clatter behind his feet?

“I’ll be better this way.”

Would the things he will do be enough to move on?

Silence.

 

* * *

 

The air is still and dry. Not much goes on at these hours, except for the scratching of the asphalt below his feet.

“PC bang’s not too busy...”

He has said he wanted to play for a while, and so he does. The station does not open until an hour later and even if he risks staying close to the dorms, he would be gone by the time suspicions would be raised. He pulls the door to the café open and pays for the hourly fee and a small bag of chips. Confidence was not on his side today and holding a few games would stress him out even further, so he instead decides to scroll through some ongoing streams and pick one that he fancies. Sharp gameplay and some good snacks allows this youth to unwind for some time. It feels like a different part of him was reignited and has given him the rose-tinted lenses of nostalgia for him to wear. He does not really care for the commentary; seeing good plays and greater wins is enough for him already. These bursts of euphoria is something he would want to work towards and experience in his own time. Hongbin has attained a sense of satisfaction for resuming his interest in something he truly likes to do. An hour passes, and the city is gingerly shedding the dim atmosphere of the evening. He sees his time is up and leaves the establishment with a little bow by the exit.

His walk transforms into a run as soon as he sees the now lit up passageway leading to the subway. Hongbin takes out his T-Money Card and scans it on the small screen. He pushes his hip into the turnstile, baggage lagging behind him, and steps foot into one of the many veins of the heart of Seoul.

A young and authoritative voice marks the opening of the subway. It echoes through the tunnels as the lights flicker on in succession. A sensory symphony, the metro’s system comes to life. The difference between now and the usual sights during rush hour is staggering. At such an early hour people are only accents to the muted interior, not overwhelming in the slightest. What is normally hidden by limbs and fabrics are now seen without obstruction. No more are the seas of heads and hair, only the polished floors, low-hanging lights and walls lined with maps and posters advertising cheap destinations for this summer decorate the station. The architecture is clearly of another decade, and it serves as a timestamp of some of engineering’s early milestones.

“Line 3, Number 336: Apgujeong Station” is printed on the overhead signs in bold, black characters.

The turnstile lets out a satisfying thunk before locking itself into place, back into its original position. At this rate, the possibility of one of his fellow trainees finding him will only be an afterthought. The clocks dispersed around the waiting areas point to 5:32 am.

“The train will be arriving soon. Please stay behind the yellow line.” The announcer dictates this along with a bunch of other reminders for passengers.

Vibrations take over the platform as the train carts come to a halt. He enters the vehicle and picks a seat closest to where he entered. While the thought is fresh in his mind, Hongbin leaves a missed call for his mother in hopes that she will respond once she is awake. He will use the few minutes in the subway mulling over what to say to her once she does. The more the statements about his revelation are challenged by his own fabricated counterarguments, the more he regrets dialling her number.

After giving up on justifying himself once the time comes, he looks around and studies the interior of the train. A rare, almost mythical sight it is to see the exposed skeleton of the subway, it would be a missed opportunity to not take a picture of it. It is already his last stop before his destination. He pulls his analog camera out of his bag, stands up from his seat and lines a shot down the cart. Such a beautiful, one-way perspective, Hongbin kneels down and angles it a little higher. Lines clear and uninterrupted, hands steady, he squeezes the button with his finger. Freeze it in time and make it yours, reminisce as you look into the window of what you captured.

Inertia knocks him off his feet as the train slows down. At least the picture came out good.

“Line 3, Number 340: Seoul Express Bus Terminal Station”.

Hongbin darts out of the subway and heads for the older half of the terminal, Gyeongbu. The buses here are headed the same way he is — due south. Crowds hailing from different parts of Korea are starting to flood in, continuing their own journeys in the capital. After weaving through some luggage and having awkward moments with travelers mimicking his side steps, he arrives at the row of ticket counters. Few of the desks are actually open; the ones that are have a queue of others who want to take advantage of the time of the year as much as possible.

“A ticket to Anseong, please. 6:20 am slot.”

The attendant at the counter accepts the bills given to them, the exact amount needed to pay. He accepts the ticket and receipt, bows his head and lets the next person have their turn. As he goes he scouts out an open restaurant or stall to have his breakfast in. It is too early for the mall connected to the terminal to be open, so options are greatly limited. After a few minutes of walking and searching, Hongbin settles for a humble restaurant close to the terminal he was assigned to. He sits at one of the tables that were set up drops all of his things to the ground. The midsummer sun is starting to rise, and a brilliant, golden glow showers the area, bringing life to its temporary inhabitants. The weight of the night has been lifted from his shoulders; he is reminded of the today and the tomorrows that are about to come.

After a short break to ease his legs, he stands up so he can order his breakfast. His phone vibrates in his pocket and is stopped short of his meal ventures. He takes it out and sees a portrait of a woman, one whose features unmistakably influenced his own.

He accepts the call and bring his phone close to his ear. Her concerned voice rushes through it.

 

* * *

 

Clear, dry stains freshly coat the surface of his cheek. As memories of his mother resurface, once stagnant feelings resume their ebb and flow. Now displaced from its place after years of being quelled by his psyche, it crosses over to his waking life. Tears trickle down gently, much like the rare drizzles of rain of spring days. He stays in the same position for a few more minutes before wiping his eyes with the insides of his palms. Hearing her voice still pierces through him; it was as if she was right there next to him. One loud, groan-like yawn and a stretch or two later, he rolls the other way. A cupped hand shields his phone from the unruly glare of the afternoon and he checks the time.

2:41 pm.

An alert pops up from the top of the interface and covers the time, directing Hongbin’s attention to it.

“As of 2:40 pm, fine dust levels have risen to unsafe amounts across the country. Citizens are advised to wear dust masks, limit time spent outdoors and the use of private vehicles.”

He lets out a disappointed sigh and falls back onto the mattress. Being trapped in this house for days at a time is a sad reality he has to face. The only fragment of the outside that can reach him now is the sun, but now it is slowly being overshadowed by the skies it used to be under. It is no use to go out now when all he will see is one streak of grey across the skyline. Nothing to write about or capture or anything, just grey.

Hongbin stares out the window and enjoys the last bit of sunshine he can get before it vanishes. Until the dust settles, he can find some fun in booting up some old games again.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the 100 hits and some sweet comments, it's really encouraging. I don't feel like much has happened this chapter, but some past stuff's been revealed so there's that. If you wanna ask questions or fight me for whatever depressing stuff I wrote or will be writing, feel free to leave a comment or @ me on twitter (same handle as this account).
> 
> Happy reading :^)

**Author's Note:**

> This is both my first time writing and my first time tackling such a big project. Had trouble with the tags so to be clear, this is a Hongbin-centric work and the rest of VIXX will appear later on. Feel free to leave comments or fight me on Twitter if necessary (same handle as this account). I write as I go, so there is no set schedule for uploading either. Updates will be posted on Twitter however, along with any artworks I decide to do.
> 
> Happy reading :^)


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